The Case of the Banishing Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  “Maybe werewolves can be explained by science, too,” I say. “We just haven’t gotten there yet, as a society.”

  “Okay...” he’s still scratching the back of his head. Then he releases his hand. He looks nervously over towards the front lawn of the inn, where his coworkers are still fingerprinting the sill.

  “Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know. What I do know is that if you go around talking about werewolves like you are, you’re going to be the laughingstock of the town.”

  “Maybe that’s the price I’ll have to pay,” I say. “A man died in there.” I point to the window, where McDougal is now filling out some sort of paperwork, and Chief Holcomb is sealing up a plastic container. “You guys are going to miss a really important angle of this case if you don’t believe me about the wolves.”

  Chris shakes his head.

  My tone becomes more urgent. “You have to believe me. You have to talk to the other officers about this. You have to talk to your chief. I’m telling you, this murder involves werewolves. I don’t know how, but it—”

  Chris cuts in. “Penny, you’re not listening to me. There is no way I’m talking to the Chief about this. And neither should you. Do you know how crazy this sounds?”

  “Stop saying that word! I’m not crazy!” I flap my arms in a way that might contradict my statement.

  Just then, I hear McDougal call Chris’s name. Chris and I both look up. McDougal is holding a cellphone up in the air, and waving it back and forth.

  “Cap Wagner!” McDougal shouts again. “We’ve got Melrose P.D. on the line! They completed the fingerprint analysis on the knife!”

  “Coming!” Chris says.

  He looks back at me. “How about this,” he says. “You go up to headquarters and fill out a police report detailing everything you saw that involved Marty last night. Report the fact that you saw him break into the inn. We should have recorded it all last night, but things got hectic. We need that in writing.”

  “That wasn’t all I saw,” I say.

  “I know—” Chris holds up a hand. “Just don’t say anything about the ... the wolves, for now. Okay?”

  “But there was something else, too,” I say. “Sarah Pelletier. She was here, before Marty.”

  “Really?” Chris glances up at McDougal, who is still holding up the phone. I can tell that Chris wants to take the call. He looks back at me. “You’d better report on that, too. How close was the timing?”

  He takes a step away, backing up, moving towards the inn’s lawn. “I mean, between Sarah and Marty?” he finishes, as he takes another step backwards.

  “She came by right before Marty did. It wasn’t a coincidence. She looked into Raul’s room.”

  “You’d better report on that, too.” He backs up another step. “It’s important that we get your statements down in writing—about the events of last night. If you fill out the reports, I’ll... I’ll think about how we can handle the... other thing.”

  “The werewolves?” I say. My voice carries, because now Chris is five feet away from me.

  He grimaces, and nods. “Yeah, that. Just keep it quiet for now, okay Penny? I have to figure out how to deal with this. Give me some time, okay?”

  “Fine,” I say, though I’m not happy about it. “I’ll head up to the headquarters now. Can you call me once you’re off the phone with the Melrose guys? I want to know about the knife, too.”

  I can tell Chris is relieved that I’ve agreed not to make a big scene about the wolves. Usually, he hesitates when it comes to sharing information with me. But right now, he almost smiles. “Yeah,” he says, backing up more. “Yeah, I’ll call you.”

  Then he turns and starts jogging across the inn’s yard, towards McDougal and his waiting phone call.

  I push my bike in a big U-turn and then get on it and begin pedaling begrudgingly up the hill towards the police department.

  An hour later, I’ve completed a short, handwritten novella regarding what I saw the night before. I swear, my hand almost cramped up! The questions were endless.

  On top of filling out the paperwork, I’ve also endured a round of questioning by one of Chris’ fellow officers, a guy named Bill Braxton. Basically, I find myself repeating what I wrote down on the form. ‘Yes, Officer. I was sitting in my van eating corn chips when I spotted Sarah Pelletier walking down the street. She was wearing a pencil skirt and heels. She walked over to the window and...’

  You know the rest.

  I’m drained by the time I step out through the P.D.’s glass double doors, back into the late afternoon sunshine, and begin walking towards my bike.

  Since I was so tied up in there, what with all the questions, I haven’t had time to check my phone.

  Now that I’m free, I pull it out of my messenger bag. I have one new voicemail. It’s from Chris. I reach my bike and pause, listening to his message.

  “Hey, uh... Penny. I just got off the phone with the Melrose Police Department. You wanted to know about the knife analysis. They found a set of clear prints on the knife. The print isn’t Marty’s, and it isn’t Dawson’s. Problem is, they’re not finding any matches in the databases.”

  Yeah, I think, rolling my eyes as I listen to the message. Because they’re from another realm.

  The voicemail continues. Chris’s voice is flat and business-like. “The print doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. Chief decided to let Dawson go. There’s no reason to hold onto him now that we know his prints aren’t on the murder weapon, and his story about the map is checking out. We’re going to hold onto Marty until we can figure out what he was doing at the inn last night. That’s about it. Hope you filled out those reports.”

  Chris hangs up without another word.

  No ‘goodbye’.

  More importantly, no ‘I love you’.

  I lower my phone, and just stare at it for a moment.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Dawson descending the concrete steps behind me, as he exits the police department.

  I turn and try to catch his eye with a little wave. He’s still wearing the same clothes that he was in last night and he has dark circles under his eyes. He always has dark circles under his eyes, but these are darker than usual.

  “You’re out!” I say. “Dawson, that’s great.”

  He gives a weak smile. “Yeah, it would have been even better if I was never dragged in there in the first place.” He rubs his wrists, as if trying to clean away the memory of being in handcuffs. “Wrong place, wrong time, like my dad said last night,” he says. He gives a defeated sort of shrug.

  “For real,” I say, just to commiserate with him. Dawson starts walking down the sidewalk, and I grab my bike and start rolling it along next to me as I fall into step with him.

  “I bet you’re excited to get home,” I say.

  Dawson nods. “I’m going to take a hot shower and go to bed,” he says.

  “That’s what I’d do, if I was in your shoes,” I say. “Hey, can I ask you a quick question?”

  “Oh man,” Dawson says, unhappily. “I don’t know. I’m tired, and I’ve been answering questions for—”

  “Just really quick,” I say.

  “Fine,” Dawson mumbles. He doesn't sound very happy about it.

  “Okay. I’m trying to figure out if Marty Stevens has anything to do with the two men you saw in Raul’s room last night. Or, even if he might have some kind of connection with Raul. Or—all of them.”

  “And?” Dawson says. He reaches up and rubs his temple, like I’m giving him a headache.

  We’ve reached the end of Aspen Street, and we both pause to check for traffic before crossing.

  There are no cars, and Dawson starts walking. I push my bike off of the curb and jog a few steps to catch up to him.

  “I’m wondering if you ever saw them together... or overheard anything... or have any idea what Marty might have been doing there.”

  “Well, he’s Marty—with Animal Control. Maybe it has something to do with that bl
oody print that was on the carpet.” Dawson shrugs. “I mean, I’m not a detective or a cop, but that seems like the obvious connection to me. Animal Control, animal paw print.”

  “Right. The paw print. A super obvious connection.”

  Dawson continues. “I don’t think that bloody print was a wild wolf’s. If it was in Raul’s room, it must have been his pet. Domesticated. Maybe it was a dog with wolf ancestors. Or some kind of wolf-dog hybrid. My dad said he saw two large animals out on the sidewalk, so maybe Raul had two wolf-dogs. I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever see Raul with this animal?” I ask. “I mean, did he come down to breakfast with two wolf-dog hybrids on leashes?”

  Dawson shakes his head. “No, but he must have had them... the print was in his room. Maybe he was keeping them hidden because he didn’t want to pay the pet deposit or something.” He shrugs again. “Or maybe they’re illegal pets, and he didn’t want to get caught with them.”

  “Could be,” I say. “But then where did the animals go? When you went into the room that night, it was just Raul’s dead body and the two other men, right? No dogs?”

  Dawson looks a bit confused by this. “I don’t know. Maybe Raul lost them, I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not a detective or a cop. It’s not my job to figure this out. I’m tired.”

  “But you think Raul had pets with him,” I press. “Why?” I know Dawson’s tired, but this is important. I’m going to keep pestering him with questions for as long as I can.

  Dawson gives a frustrated groan. “I told you, Penny, I don’t know!” he says. “You’re asking so many questions. I just think it makes sense. That was why he wanted my map so badly. He wanted a place to take his pet dogs or wolves or whatever out on hikes.”

  “Dogs love hikes,” I say.

  “Especially out in the Never Summer Peak area... that’s what he wanted the map of so badly.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say. “Is that what he said?”

  Dawson nods. “He didn’t want to buy the map until I promised him that the whole topographical layout of Never Summer was on it. He said he needed to get up to the summit.”

  Hm. Now that’s interesting.

  Hillcrest is nestled in a valley between three peaks, and Never Summer Peak is our guardian hunk of rock to the east. Never Summer blocks the sun on the east side of town until eleven in the morning. For a few dark days during the dead middle of winter, the behemoth Never Summer Peak will only allow sun to strike Hillcrest for a sliver of time, from one to three.

  But what does Raul’s interest in Never Summer Peak have to do with Marty? I circle back to my original line of questioning.

  “Back to Animal Control Marty,” I say. We reach another street crossing. Now I can see the hill, at the bottom of which lies the Hillcrest Inn. Soon, we’ll be to Dawson’s home—where his shower and bed await him. I can sense that Dawson’s looking forward to ditching me by going into his house.

  I only have a few minutes left with him.

  “What do you think Marty has to do with all of this?” I ask. “You think Marty was maybe there to...?”

  “To do his job?” Dawson says. “He’s in charge of controlling wild animals in Hillcrest. Like I said, I think wolf-dog hybrids are illegal, in Colorado at least. And that print in Raul’s room was very large. Either a big dog, or, like my dad thinks, a wolf. The print was bloody. My dad showed a photo of it to Marty. I’m not surprised that Marty needed to check it out.”

  “But why at night?” I ask. “Why did he have to break in? ”

  Dawson shrugs.

  We turn onto main street and walk a few steps in silence. Then I speak up again, half to myself and half to Dawson. “And what does Sarah have to do with it? She’s helping your mom with marketing... she has a Bernedoodle named Hermes... she’s on the town council... she’s the director of tourism...”

  Dawson speeds up a bit, and I jog three steps to catch him. “Wait up,” I say.

  “Um, do you think we could be done here?” Dawson says. He’s rubbing his forehead again. “No offense, it’s just... I think I just need some quiet time. You’re kind of giving me a headache.”

  I’m giving myself a headache.

  “Oh. Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Dawson.” For nothing, I think to myself. I fall back and let him speed up and pull away from me.

  I’m left alone with my thoughts once again. This time, however, as I get on my bike and start to pedal, I’m not trying to figure out my next steps.

  I know exactly where I’m going.

  The fingerprints on that knife weren’t Sarah’s. They weren’t Marty’s. They weren’t Dawson’s.

  That leaves me with two suspects: The man in the trench coat, and the man in the grey beanie.

  And now that I’ve talked to Dawson, I think I have an idea where I might find at least one of them.

  The wolves with dark fur probably stick together, right?

  If Raul, who I am fairly certain was a Tenebris wolf, was interested in Never Summer Peak, there’s a good chance the other visitor to Hillcrest is too.

  I would love to have a chat with Mr. Grey Beanie Werewolf himself.

  With this in mind, I turn my bike down Balsam Road, and start biking east, towards the trails that will lead me up into Never Summer Peak.

  Chapter Nine

  I can see Never Summer Peak. It towers over the east end of town like a rocky sentinel, guarding Hillcrest from the threat of tomorrow’s rising sun. It’s afternoon now, so the sun has slipped by for the day, but I know that tomorrow morning, Never Summer Peak will cast a shadow over Hillcrest once again.

  I’ve heard of at least one trail that leaves town and winds its way up towards the Never Summer summit. I’ve never hiked it.

  It’s appropriately named Never Summer Peak Trail, which is easy to remember. Where does it start?

  For twenty minutes, I ride along the roads on the east edge of town, looking for a sign that points to the Never Summer Trailhead.

  I’m glad that I’m dressed in black pants, a hoodie, and my high tops. I’ve been wearing lots of dresses lately, and a pair of new-to-me cowboy boots that I bought from the Antique Haven, neither of which are ideal for biking. Dresses can create too much of a breeze, and my cowboy boots tend to slip off of my pedals at less-than-awesome times. Come to think of it, is there ever an awesome time for your boot to slip off of your pedal?

  Exactly. No.

  I spot a trail sign and stand up on my pedals to gain some momentum up a narrow, one-way street. As I ride, pavement turns to dirt, and the street becomes even narrower.

  And bumpier.

  The houses along the side of the narrow street get progressively farther and farther apart, and then stop altogether. After about a quarter of a mile of riding, I reach a sign that states “Welcome to the Never Summer Peak wilderness area”. Beyond it, the narrow, bumpy dirt road dwindles into nothing but dirt single-track.

  I wish I had a mountain bike.

  My town cruiser will not be able to handle the steep, winding trail ahead of me.

  There’s only one way for me to proceed: By foot.

  I dismount my bike and lock it to a sapling next to the welcome sign. Then I start to hike.

  Now, I’ve grown up in Hillcrest, so I know a thing or two about hiking. Our small town is surrounded by wilderness, so it’s an activity that nearly all of us are raised on, from preschool on up.

  I know that I’m supposed to start early.

  I’m well aware that I should know the area, be with someone who does, or bring a map.

  I’ve been told a thousand times that it’s best to wear layers.

  And of course, I know that I should bring plenty of water.

  But just because you know something, does it always mean that you do it? I mean, I also know that I’m supposed to eat green leafy vegetables and floss my teeth every night, yet I survive mostly on cereal and baked goods from Annie’s cafe, and I’m lucky if I floss three nights out of the week.

  Ok
ay. Fine. One night.

  I’m working on it.

  As I walk down the trail, I start to think about all of the ‘rules’ of hiking that I’m currently disregarding. Tilting my chin up, I look at the afternoon sunlight, as it streams through the butter-yellow and rusted-gold aspen leaves. It’s well past lunch time. No early start here! The sun will set in a few hours, and I don’t have a headlamp with me. At least it’s going to be a nearly full moon tonight.

  I have only a vague idea of where this trail leads. I know it’s going to wind its way up towards the summit of the mountain, but I don’t know any details. If I get off of the path by mistake, I could get lost in a hurry. On top of that, I don’t have any sort of jacket or hat with me, in case the temperature drops. I’m by myself. And on top of all that, I’ve barely eaten all day, and my water bottle is nearly empty. I drained it while I was being questioned by Officer Braxton, a few hours back, and never refilled it.

  Crap.

  I’m not really in the best position to track down a werewolf.

  But if I don’t do this, who else will?

  With that question in mind, I start moving even faster.

  My stride is long and determined. The trail gets steeper as I go, but I refuse to slow down my pace. I hustle up the path as if I’m bounding up a staircase two steps at a time. To motivate me, I play music on my phone at top volume.

  Needless to say, after two hours of this I’m sweaty, thirsty, tired, and questioning my plan. Plus, my phone battery died, fifteen minutes ago.

  Now, I can’t even call for help if I need it.

  Was bounding off into the wilderness in search of a werewolf the best course of action? Did I really have to play music on my phone for the last two hours?

  Really?

  I stop to think about it. My sweaty cotton tee shirt is clinging to my body beneath my hoodie, and as soon as I stop moving, a chill sets in.

  I shiver.

  I pull my water bottle out of my bag.